TROUBLE, peter parker

ii. the flash attack

One thing that was lovable about New York was the resilience of its people. No matter how fast they were free-falling from finding success, they managed to garner the strength of colonies of ants (proportional to humans, of course) and still pull themselves together and strive for greatness they may never reach. It was almost like they lived parallel to the rats and roaches of New York as well.

Maya really felt like a roach climbing up the fire escape of a building. Climbing metal was easy for her though, and she felt like she was basically floating up the levels. Finally reaching her destination, she rapped her knuckles against the window twice.

The eclectic man inside spun around a few times before realizing the source of the noise and opening the window for her.

"You're later than usual," he said, not judging or strict, but just as speculation.

That was something she liked about the job. It was advertised in the armpits of the newspaper that Maya had miraculously glanced over (right place, right time, she supposed), and it was advertised as a flexible job suited for introverts and those willing to fight against The Man. After reviewing with her father, they were both very wary of the advertisement, so of course, she took the job.

"I got detention," she said.

He pursed his lips and hummed to himself. "Hopefully for a good cause?"

She tilted her head, thinking it over.

"You're not allowed to come in if you did something terrible to others."

Maya sighed. "It was a frame job. Eighty copies of Salinger. My locker."

"You may enter," he said with a nod. He moved out of the way to let her in.

Maya brushed her dark hair out of her face, combating the wind, before climbing in and closing the window behind her. She had to avoid stepping over the loose files and scattered papers everywhere to get to the swivel chair in front of the messy desk and sit down.

The man—her boss, Charles Cleveland—took a step in her direction, noticed she was already there, paused, and tapped on the end of his eraser with a finger, before sighing and stepping back, continuing to amble around the room.

Cleveland was a tall, lanky man who dressed like a mix between someone who was perpetually running in Central Park and a mortician disgraced for malpractice. Contrary to how messy and unorganized he was, he was actually somewhat good at his job, a considerable part of that accredited to hiring Maya as an intern (he told her once that she had a knack for spying on people and she proceeded to have an existential crisis).

He had studied investigative journalism but was too against "working for the man" to take a corporate job so he became a private investigator, who would occasionally take on his own stories and exposés that he would sell back to "the man."

Maya was mostly assigned to his passion projects while he focused on what he was actually asked to do and was promised pay for. It was surprisingly lucrative considering how many people in New York didn't trust the police with handling a crime of a loved one, those who wanted blackmail material on their bosses, or those who didn't trust their partners.

"Something new?" Maya asked, swiveling around while maintaining eye contact.

She was never called into his home office (as if he had another) unless he had a new project he wanted to start and wanted large involvement on her part or if they were closing a project. They mostly communicated in other mediums for most of the job; Cleveland insisted on using burner phones that were changed monthly because he was scared of being tracked, and although Maya found that a bit too paranoid, she didn't mind since he was providing her with them. Just the perks of the job.